The Insurrectionist

by Herb Karl

  Struggling to conceal his frustrations, Brown assembled the company. He needed time to sort things out, to make sure his next actions weren’t done in haste. Though he wanted to lead his men into battle, he also wanted to return to his ailing boys—the wounded and sick who had been loyal to him at Pottawatomie and Black Jack. He refused to admit it, but his own health was failing again. He was experiencing the chills and fever that had tormented him sporadically in recent weeks. He needed to take care of his boys, but he also needed to recuperate from his own illness.

  “I release you from duty,” he announced to the men who had ridden with him to Topeka. “I expect to be active again and I hope you shall join me when I return. There is still much work to be done, but I must take leave of you at this time.”

  Brown shook the hand of each man, wished all of them well. Then he and Jason saddled up and headed for Ottawa Creek. The old man needed not only to tend to his invalids but also to prepare for his reentry into the war for a free Kansas. Federal forces were preoccupied with a surge in guerrilla activity; they wouldn’t waste time focusing their attention exclusively on John Brown.

  The violence in Kansas Territory was far from over. And Brown had no intention of retreating from it. He was merely biding his time, fulfilling obligations. His invalids either no longer wanted to fight or were too ill to think about anything but going home. Except for Frederick. He still felt bound to Kansas because of the guilt brought on by Pottawatomie.

  Brown, however, was optimistic about the possibility of growing another following. Though he’d felt compelled to release the volunteers who were with him at Topeka, he was hopeful they would respond to his call when he returned to action.

  Only one thing was certain. History wasn’t repeated in Topeka—or anywhere else in Kansas Territory—on Independence Day, July 4, 1856. There was no battle against federal troops, no heroic defense of the Free State legislature. As far as Brown was concerned nothing had changed.

  Shortly after he and Jason arrived at the encampment on Ottawa Creek, the old man was told that proslavery forces were massing along the border. Similar reports in the past had turned out to be greatly exaggerated.

  6

  Eight Weeks Later

  August 28, 1856

  Kansas Territory

  Toward evening a herd of cattle churned the dry soil, sending a dust cloud rolling across the prairie south of Osawatomie. Outriders—their faces covered with bandannas—struggled to keep the cattle from straying. In front, clear of the suffocating dust, John Brown rode alone.

  A young man repairing a rail fence strained to recognize the leader. When Brown came within hailing distance, the young man saw who it was and called his name. Brown broke off from the herd and turned his horse toward the fence.

  “Fine looking steers, Captain,” the young man shouted as Brown approached. “Where’d they come from?”

  “It matters not,” Brown replied. “They’re Free State cattle now.”

  The young man smiled. Brown returned to the herd.

  In the distance the old man spotted three horsemen riding hard in his direction. He rested a hand on his pistol, then saw that one of the men was his son Frederick.

  “The Missourians, Father,” Frederick shouted over the rumble of the cattle. “They’re at the border. Lane and Walker need you in Lawrence.”

  Brown knew it was only a matter of time before Missouri militias would seek to avenge the growing number of raids on proslavery settlements. He had a decision to make—join up with Jim Lane and Sam Walker, both venerated leaders of Free State forces, or continue on his own. He’d been busy scouring the countryside around Osawatomie, seeking targets of opportunity for his newly formed Kansas Regulars—twenty-seven mounted men sworn to serve under his command.

  Several weeks earlier, as the old man was nursing his ailing sons at the encampment on Ottawa Creek, he’d found time to spend with his host, Ottawa Jones. While Owen, Salmon, Frederick, and Oliver—and son-in-law Henry Thompson—convalesced, Brown dined with Jones and his wife in their double-walled log home. After supper he sat in Jones’s parlor toiling over a document that would govern the conduct of men he planned to recruit when he returned to action. The Articles of Enlistment and By-Laws of the Kansas Regulars specified rules of engagement, court martial offenses, chain of command—but also reflected Brown’s personal sensibilities:

  All uncivil, ungentlemanly, profane, vulgar talk or conversation shall be discountenanced.

  The ordinary use or introduction into the camp of any intoxicating liquor as a beverage is hereby declared disorderly.

  While his thoughts were focused on returning to the fighting, the old man reconciled himself to the wishes of his boys. Owen, Salmon, Oliver, and Henry wanted to go home. When they were well enough to travel, Brown and Frederick loaded them onto a covered oxcart and headed north to Nebraska Territory.

  When they reached Nebraska City, Frederick—who had been struggling with feelings of guilt since Pottawatomie—announced that he’d be staying with his father in Kansas. The rest of the boys boarded a ferry at the Missouri River.

  Brown soon learned that Owen got only as far as the abolitionist community of Tabor, Iowa, where he was again stricken with illness and was taken in by a local minister. Salmon, Oliver, and Henry had continued their journey to North Elba, New York.

  Even without his boys, the old man was confident he could start over. Somehow he’d find volunteers and build a new company, one that would bear his unique signature.

  Brown and Frederick’s presence in Nebraska City was timely. It coincided with the arrival of Jim Lane and Sam Walker. Lane had returned from a series of promotional speeches in the North, where he recruited four hundred emigrants, more than half of them young men starved for action, all of them waiting to be led into Kansas Territory. Walker had come up from Lawrence with his militia to escort Lane’s caravan across the Nebraska-Kansas border. When Lane learned Brown was in town, he insisted the old man meet with him and Walker so they might talk about working together to advance the cause of freedom in Kansas.

  A skeptical Brown showed up at the meeting. Unlike Lane and Walker, each of whom commanded armies numbering in the hundreds, the old man had no soldiers, having released them at Topeka. He sat tight-lipped as his hosts spoke of taking a more aggressive posture toward the proslavery militias. The meeting was interrupted by a bearded young man, an impressive physical specimen who looked like he’d been chiseled from a slab of Kansas limestone.

  “I’ve asked Colonel Whipple to join us,” Lane said. He introduced the young man as the leader of the Second Kansas Militia.

  Colonel Whipple only knew Brown through stories he’d heard and read. He shook the old man’s hand and said, “My compliments on your victory at Black Jack, Captain. You’ve enticed the wolves from their lairs so the rest of us can hunt.”

  Brown responded with an ambivalent nod. His instincts told him to make a mental note of this man. There was something about his manner, his piercing dark eyes. Later he learned that “Whipple” was a name Lane had given the colonel to conceal his identity from federal authorities. His real name was Aaron Dwight Stevens; before Lane recruited him, he’d escaped from the military prison at Leavenworth.

  “Colonel Whipple will be taking a more active role in our operations,” Lane said, then explained that his own involvement would be curtailed. He was told to remain in Nebraska, that he’d be arrested if he returned to Kansas. He said he’d shoot himself before abandoning the four hundred immigrants he brought to Nebraska City.

  Brown grew weary of the talk. He appreciated Lane’s situation but didn’t see its relevance to his own aims. Lane was a Kansas man; he intended to do what he could to convert Kansas Territory into a free state. The same was true of Walker. Good men with good purposes. For Brown, however, a free Kansas was not his ultimate goal. In order to achieve what he wanted, the old man wouldn’t hesitate to leave Kansas and “operate in another part of the field.” He was glad, th
ough, to have met Colonel Whipple.

  Whatever lay ahead, Brown’s actions would be exclusively his own. He wasn’t interested in joining Jim Lane or Sam Walker or any other guerrilla leader. New York Tribune correspondent William A. Phillips—the man Brown conveyed to the Topeka convention—had it right when he said, “John Brown was not in the habit of subjecting himself to the orders of anybody. When there was work to be done, he would do it his way.”

  After leaving Nebraska City, Brown and Frederick returned to Ottawa Creek, where the old man made an inventory of his needs.

  For his army of Kansas Regulars, he wanted men who shared his purpose and moral values and were willing to submit to the code of conduct he’d drawn up at the home of Ottawa Jones. Son Jason was available—at least temporarily. His wife and child were safe at the Osawatomie home of Brown’s half sister Florilla Adair. Jason again consented to join his father, even though by now it was well understood he deplored violence and had vowed to leave the territory as soon as John Jr. was released from prison—after which the two brothers, along with their wives and children, planned to return to Ohio.

  Though Jason signed on, Frederick didn’t. He chose to work independently as a messenger between Lawrence and Osawatomie, keeping the several guerrilla bands that operated in eastern Kansas aware of each other’s actions.

  Brown hadn’t forgotten those who joined him on the ineffectual expedition to Topeka. These men and others, particularly the loquacious John Cook, had spread the word of Brown’s return. It wasn’t long before volunteers—including some who served under him in the past—showed up at the camp on Ottawa Creek.

  While Brown was quietly enlisting soldiers, the Free State guerrillas were engaging in a series of attacks on proslavery settlements near Lawrence. Ironically, the proslavery press claimed Brown was in command at virtually every one of the incursions. Those sympathetic to the Free State cause found the reports amusing. New York Times correspondent William Hutchinson, with tongue in cheek, dubbed Brown “the terror of all Missouri” and “the old terrifier.” And in a letter from the stockade at Lecompton, John Jr. wrote Jason, “Father is an omnipresent dread to the ruffians. I see by the Missouri papers that they regard him the most terrible foe they have to encounter.”

  As the Free State offensive gained momentum, so did acts of retribution by the Missourians. David Hoyt—a well-regarded Massachusetts man—tried unsuccessfully to negotiate a truce prior to a Free State raid on a proslavery settlement. On his way home Hoyt was assailed by gunmen; they threw acid in his face before shooting him. His body was found on the prairie half eaten by vultures. The incident infuriated Free State settlers. Soon afterward, the murder of William Hoppe spawned even greater outrage. Hoppe was the innocent victim of a drunken proslavery man who made a six-dollar bet at a Leavenworth saloon that he could kill a Free State man and return with his scalp in no more than two hours. Within the prescribed time the man returned to the saloon and slapped Hoppe’s bloody scalp on the bar.

  By mid-August, looking prim and fit, Brown rode into the village of Osawatomie at the head of his company of newly enlisted Kansas Regulars. He’d traded in his black wool coat for a white linen duster; it flared out behind him, draping over his horse’s haunches. He wore a new straw hat, the brim still rigid. He was clean-shaven and seemed fully recovered from the illness that had weakened him after Black Jack. Like other Free State guerrilla leaders, he was reaping the benefits of Northern immigrant aid societies that were pumping men, money, and weapons into the territory.

  Osawatomie was a logical choice for Brown’s headquarters. He knew the neighborhood. It was home to his relatives, the Adairs, and wasn’t far from the homesteads his boys had staked out when they first arrived in Kansas. Also, he felt an obligation to defend the village that had been plundered by Henry Clay Pate as retribution for the Pottawatomie killings.

  Immediately after setting up camp, the old man thrust his men into action, raiding settlements within a twenty-mile radius of Osawatomie.

  It was during one of the raids that Brown encountered a twenty-two-year-old New Yorker and his band of Iowans. James Holmes came to Kansas hoping to serve as an agronomist for a colony of families from Pennsylvania, New York, and Ohio. When the colony failed to materialize, Holmes put together a group of Iowans looking for someone to lead them against the proslavery militias. Brown was impressed with the young man, thought he was wise beyond his years, and when he expressed an interest in joining his company, Brown apprised Holmes of the rules and regulations governing volunteers, then officially swore in him and his Iowans.

  Though rumors of a large-scale invasion from Missouri persisted, Brown refused to be distracted. For seven consecutive days he and his soldiers raided settlements south of Osawatomie. At dawn on Wednesday, August 27, they set out for a ranch that belonged to the captain of a group of border ruffians Brown suspected had taken part in a recent raid on Osawatomie.

  Brown said to Holmes, “We have a score to settle with one of our enemies. He has failed to pay taxes on some cattle he claims to own. We shall collect the taxes or repossess the cattle.”

  Later that day Brown’s men “repossessed” fifty head of cattle from the ranch. The captain was not home. Brown told the frightened wife she had nothing to fear, that he would never hurt women or children.

  And so, late in the following afternoon, while Brown and his men were herding the cattle across the dusty prairie, they ran into a hard-riding Frederick on the outskirts of Osawatomie. Brown listened as his son told him of an army of Missourians massing on the border. Lane and Walker needed him in Lawrence.

  Brown made his decision. He shouted to Frederick, “Tell them we have business here.”

  Frederick hesitated, wondered if there was anything else his father wanted to add, but the old man seemed preoccupied as he gazed in the direction of Osawatomie.

  As Frederick sped away, the old man was already pondering a line of defense. It would have to face northeast—the direction from which the Missouri invaders were likely to come.

  The sky was darkening when his men turned the cattle off the trail. Across the river on high ground lay his camp, an abandoned ranch where there was plenty of grass for liberated cattle.

  Brown and Holmes watched the cattle lurch and stumble down the river’s steep bank. A sudden gust stirred the cottonwoods; the sound of rustling leaves was lost in the din of bawling cattle splashing through the water.

  Holmes looked up at the sky. “Looks like we’re in for some weather, Captain.”

  Brown shifted his weight in the saddle. He hadn’t heard Holmes. He was deep in thought. He said, “If the enemy comes our way, we ought to have soldiers picketed in the village.”

  Holmes asked, “You want me to get my boys?”

  Brown nodded. He gave Holmes the name of a family that would take in him and his Iowans. Dark clouds were forming as another gust rocked the branches overhead.

  Meanwhile, Jason broke off from the herd, approached his father, spoke a few words, then rode off—to join his wife and child at the Adairs’ cabin, Brown supposed.

  The cattle had barely forded the river when the rain came—suddenly and torrentially. It chased the remaining men into a hay barn, where they spent the night supperless—some curled under canvas ponchos, the rest resigned to an evening of dampness, empty stomachs, and little sleep.

  The inclement weather, however, didn’t cancel a standing order: When in camp a thorough watch shall be maintained both day and night. Brown assigned two men to stand guard, one of whom was the young Austrian immigrant August Bondi.

  At dawn the old man was cooking breakfast. The rain had quit, leaving behind a dense fog. Corn coffee simmered over a fire. Smoke from damp wood billowed from under the pot, stinging Brown’s eyes. In spite of the discomfort, he went about preparing a meal intended to satisfy the hunger of men who hadn’t eaten for a day and a night. A slab of beef sizzled on an iron grate. The fog picked up the aroma, spreading it through the camp. The me
n congregated at the fire. Brown filled each man’s cup, gave each one a thick slice of beef, then asked the Lord to bless the food and prayed that he and his soldiers might soon be granted the opportunity to battle the enemies of freedom.

  He didn’t have to wait very long.

  The men were still eating when Bondi stepped out of the fog holding the arm of a young man, obviously distressed. The man had a message for Brown.

  “Captain, it’s the Missourians. They’ve killed Frederick.”

  The old man stiffened. Slowly he uncoiled. He reached for his rucksack, drew out a pair of revolvers, and tucked them under his belt.

  The messenger said the Missourians were gathered below the ridge west of Osawatomie. An advance party had been scouting the village. There was a confrontation, and now Frederick, who spent the night at a cabin near the Adairs’, was dead.

  Brown pivoted and headed for the river, his long strides propelling him toward the crossing. He didn’t look back to see if anyone was following.

  His men scurried about, retrieving weapons. Strips of meat dangled from their mouths. They guzzled coffee and tossed empty cups to the ground.

  The first soldier to catch up with Brown was twenty-three-year-old Luke Parsons. Parsons had joined the old man’s company after Black Jack. Brown made a point of presenting Parsons with a state-of-the-art, breech-loading Sharps carbine.

  “Parsons, were you ever under fire?” Brown asked.

  “No. But I will obey orders. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  Looking straight ahead, the old man said, “Take more care to end your life well than to live long.”